You and I
by Schrodingers-Cat-Paradox
Summary: "It's you. It's always you." "You and I, John." A series of short, interrelated drabbles about Sherlock and John's relationship, at different moments and all fitting a similar "You and I" theme. Johnlock.


**Full Summary: **A series of short, interrelated drabbles from both Sherlock's point of view and John's point of view, at different times in their relationship, all wrapped around a song I can not help but think of every time I think of them: "You and I" by Lady Gaga. Obviously it's a Johnlock fiction.

**Author's Note: **I do not own the song this fic is based on, just as I do not own Sherlock. They both belong to their respective owners.

* * *

_**It's been a long time but I'm back in town And this time I'm not leavin' without you.**_

Two weeks. More than ten days longer than Sherlock said he would be gone. _A short case, John. I'll be back before you know I'm gone._

That had been two weeks ago, when Mycroft had inquired Sherlock's assistance on an out of town – more, out of _country_ – expedition. Sherlock was not apt to agree, but the prospect of a new, thrilling case he had not seen in a while made him take the bait for once.

John had not been allowed to join him. Sherlock had been firm on that. _You're needed here far more than you're needed with me._

That had been two weeks ago. John is not sure how four days turned into fourteen.

A thousand disturbing thoughts have already crossed John's mind. Sherlock's hurt. Sherlock's dead. Sherlock's threatened. Sherlock's being held captive. Each explanation is less credible than the last, but it does the job of increasing John's worry.

_Far more than you're needed with me._

"Bloody idiot," John scoffs, the unfamiliar silence of the flat disturbing. He's taken to talking to himself just to fill the air.

Nothing, of course, ever answers his comments. But following this particular one, the door creaking open does.

John is on Sherlock before he is even fully through the door.

"'_A short case, John. Be back be for you know I'm gone, John,'" _John mimics scathingly, and Sherlock's eyes dim in guilt.

"It was _intentionally _short. But something happened with –"

"Two weeks. You're smart, aren't you? Do that math. That's ten days longer than you promised. And there was nothing – no phone call, no text, nothing – to tell me something hadn't….hadn't _happened to you."_

The guilt in Sherlock's eyes is like nothing John's ever seen before, and it makes himself feel guilty for snapping.

"I really am sorry, John," Sherlock says quietly.

"No, it's fine…really, it's fine…" John sighs heavily, trying to calm his raging nerves. "Just….just text or something next time."

"Now is probably not the time to tell you my phone's broken, is it?"

"Broken? How can -?" John stops himself, realizing he honestly doesn't care to know.

"Rough place, Amsterdam." Sherlock pauses for a moment, deep eyes drinking in John's face, a face John feels positive he missed. The thought is somehow satisfactory.

"Next time, I won't text you," Sherlock promises, and John raises his eyebrows at him suspiciously. "Next time, you're coming with me."

A small smile appears on John's lips, and, without a word, he grabs Sherlock into a forceful hug. A hug that cements the promise that Sherlock will never again leave without him.

* * *

_**You taste like whiskey when you kiss me…This time I'm not leavin' without you.**_

Sherlock's lesser deductive skills tell him right as John walks through the door that the doctor had been drinking.

From the stumbling of his walk to the glassy look in his eyes, Sherlock guesses John's been drinking quite a bit. He can't even begin to imagine how John found his way home.

Something about this tipsy John makes Sherlock smirk from the couch, looking down at his reading with less and less interest. He sees John collapse on the couch out of the corner of his eye with a mighty sigh.

"Good evening, John," Sherlock says, stowing the book away and risking a glance over at his partner. It's strange to him how a John like this can be attractive to him. For once his calculative brain offers no answers.

"Sherlock around?" comes John's garbled reply, looking sideways at Sherlock with shadowed eyes.

Sherlock can't fight his growing smirk. "I think he's out, actually. How much have you had to drink exactly?"

"How'd you even know that?" John doesn't actually sound like he's interested in Sherlock's reply, but Sherlock gives it anyway, unable to resist.

"Your gait when you walked in – it was off balance and crooked. Your eyes are glassy, you have shadows under your eyelids, and, probably most notably, is the wristband." Sherlock points to the red band on John's left wrist. "Unlimited tabs at the bar tonight, I'm figuring."

"Wish Sherlock had gone with," John says without any indication he had understood what Sherlock had said. "Lestrade missed him, that's for sure. Seems the whole Yard just wants to see bloody Sherlock Holmes drinking once."

He smiles lopsidedly, looking over at Sherlock again, his head resting on the back of the couch.

"You know, you look like him," he continues, hiccupping slightly, words slurring.

"Striking observation," Sherlock muses.

"You're cuter than him, though," John assures Sherlock, his smile growing elatedly. "Don't tell him I said that…."

"No worries there." Sherlock tilts his head as John's eyes slowly begin to flutter, until they completely cover his eyes and his head falls forward into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock absently cards his fingers through his hair.

"You even smell like him!" John exclaims astonishingly, shifting a little so he's laying more comfortably across Sherlock's chest.

"I wish I could say the same about you. What is that anyway, straight whiskey? Rum? Vodka? Didn't know you liked vodka –"

"Can'tstandthestuff," John interrupts hastily. "However I may have had a few shots….I can't really be positive."

"Not important." Sherlock traces his fingers along John's ears, then trail along his jaw line and neck, a strange desire formulating in his stomach.

"Don't tell Sherlock," John murmurs, almost incomprehensively, "but I kind of want to kiss you right now."

"Who am I to get in the way of that?" Sherlock mutters, lifting John's head away from his chest and catching him in a full on kiss.

It shouldn't feel so wonderful to be kissing a drunken man, but Sherlock feels simply radiant. John doesn't seem to recognize what he's doing, but he doesn't really have to, what with Sherlock's desire taking control. His mouth acts on its own accord, tongue tasting John's lips (definitely whiskey, Sherlock deduces). John's arms become carelessly tangled around Sherlock's body, and Sherlock presses closer to him, deepening the kiss and causing John to gasp.

"_Really _don't tell Sherlock," John breathes into Sherlock's mouth. "You ought to come along next time instead of him."

"Anything you say, love," Sherlock agrees distractedly, closing off John's open mouth again, a sort of drunken haze blurring his vision as if John is transmitting the condition to him by a simple kiss.

* * *

_**On the couch where we made love the first time and you said to me…**_

Sherlock is positive John is doing this on purpose.

He sits at the kitchen table, wearing his robe – and from what Sherlock can see, nothing else – and sipping his tea.

Sherlock watches him from the living room, hands pressed together, trying to deduce this interesting new situation. The two of them had only been, as John referred to it, "dating," for eight months. Eight months, three weeks, four days. But John, as far as Sherlock can remember, had not once appeared well in Sherlock's view wearing practically nothing. John is at least somewhat of a modest man.

Possibilities. One, John is still attempting to fully wake up and thus is not accustomed enough to get dressed yet. Sherlock can eliminate that option quickly; John is always dressed right after waking.

Two, John has no clean clothes. No, definitely not plausible. Sherlock recalls rummaging through his chest of drawers only a day ago, finding ample supply of necessary clothing items (the fact of _why _he was sneaking in John's drawers is of no matter of importance).

Three, John is doing this as some sort of attraction mechanism. This one makes sense. No clothes, a light robe, in clear view of Sherlock. As a bonus, Sherlock can see that the robe is hanging open just enough to see John's bare chest, but not enough to discredit imagination.

Sherlock realizes his imagination is not enough. Whatever John is planning, it's definitely working. Sherlock can feel a crawling sensation under his skin, itching to slip the robe off and see his partner as he truly is, with no distractions.

"John, would you come here?" Sherlock asks, his voice unintentionally seductive.

John glances at him, a small smile on his lips, not missing the tone. But he doesn't make to stand, which oddly frustrates Sherlock.

"Something the matter?" John asks innocently.

"No," Sherlock lies, the crawling sensation deepening in strength. "Just come here."

John's smile widens. "What do you need, Sherlock?"

"I would assume that would be obvious," Sherlock scoffs, but inside his body is short circuiting.

"_I _assumed it would be obvious," John counters, finally standing and moving slowly, deliberately, over to where Sherlock sits on the couch. Sherlock tries not to notice the way the robe falls open slightly as he walks, but his efforts are fruitless.

"I figured as much." Sherlock seizes a hand on John's robe and pulls him down to him, his hands working without his mind to slip off the robe until John is very, very bare on top of him.

John does his own part by removing, layer by layer, Sherlock's clothing. Sherlock's head falls back on the arm of the couch, John's bare, muscled arms holding his shoulders, bare chests grazing.

"_I love you, Sherlock Holmes,_" John murmurs, so low it could be a growl. "And I need you."

Sherlock doesn't need to say it back. His mouth has more important things to do.

* * *

_**Something about lonely nights…There's something about baby You and I.**_

John's whole body is on fire, or so he believes as he's throwing himself out of bed, shaking terribly and gasping.

He hasn't had a nightmare like that in years.

This sudden movement causes Sherlock to bolt straight upward in the same bed, looking around with an uncharacteristic worry in his eyes until his gaze lands on John.

"John, what –" But he stops almost at once, taking in John's shivering stature and wide, wild eyes. "Oh. Nightmare again?"

"It….Only minor," John tries to brush it off, but his voice is hoarse from the never-ending smoke that did, in fact, not exist.

Sherlock contemplates him carefully, an eyebrow arched. "You haven't had one in years. Once the nightmares come back, they can't be 'only minor.'"

"You-you don't need to worry. It was just a silly dream." John shakily sits down back on the bed, back towards Sherlock.

"A silly dream that made you jump like that?" Sherlock is way too bright to buy that.

"A silly dream," John repeats, a firm edge slowly coming back into his voice.

John jumps slightly as a cold hand creeps up John's bare back, rubbing slow, soothing circles.

"Lie down," Sherlock whispers.

"I don't know if I can," John blurts out. "Dreams are lonely, dark places, Sherlock."

"I thought they were 'silly.'"

John throws a scathing look over his shoulder, expecting to find a smirk on Sherlock's face, but is surprised to see none. Only a stoic, mildly concerned face meets him.

"They're silly in that they're not real, but still terrify you," John explains, slowly falling back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"You're not alone, John, not even in your dreams." Sherlock's methodic voice makes John's limbs weaken. "You're never alone so long as you're here."

John looks over at Sherlock, whose intense eyes seem to glow like lanterns in the darkness.

"Now go to sleep… We're never apart as long as we're together, you and I…."

John thinks Sherlock continues talking, but to John it is a lullaby that sends him drifting immediately off to sleep.

* * *

_**It's been two years…**_

John cannot decide whether Sherlock has forgotten or simply does not care.

Either way, his partner's nonchalant morning greeting as he tromps downstairs slightly irritates him.

"'Morning," John replies, and, unsure of where to continue from there, hastily adds, "Coffee?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock replies, not looking at him.

John can feel an unnecessary weight in the pocket of his robe as he busies himself with the coffee. He'd almost forgotten he'd put that there this morning.

"Anything….important….you have going on today?" John asks, trying to sound conversational.

"Not that I seem to recall," Sherlock replies at once.

"Nothing at all?" The desperation seeps into John's voice before he can help it.

A short pause. "John, is there something I should be concerned about?"

The box in John's pocket feels even heavier. _It's really not that difficult. Just take it out and tell him._

"Er, no, not really, no…." John shakes his head hastily.

"Well, if you're not doing anything, either, I request your presence with me. Once you're dressed, we're going to the park."

John blinks, turning around to face Sherlock, slightly suspicious. "You're not one for relaxing days at the park, Sherlock."

"You are," Sherlock counters, looking at John out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes, but – Sherlock, are you _sure _you don't recall anything about today? Something possibly important?"

Sherlock turns his head to look at John fully, eyebrows raised. "Are you implying that I am _supposed _to recall something?"

John gives up on the situation, sighing hugely and turning back to his coffee. If Sherlock wanted to remember, he would. John couldn't hope for anything else with him.

He does as Sherlock has instructed him and dresses rather slowly. John's eyes stay fixed on the black box he has set on his dresser. His stomach knots just looking at the thing, but he still slips it into his pocket again, where it presses uncomfortably against his leg. He won't be able to forget about the thing the entire time he's out with Sherlock today.

He ponders Sherlock's odd request to go to the park the whole walk to it, the cold London air freezing his ears and exposed neck. He is obviously aware of Sherlock's constant glances at him, but he tries to ignore them. Of course he doesn't succeed in that respect.

John is positively shivering by the time they reach John's favorite park in all of London, a rather serene place with little activity. The perfect place to go when John is overstressed. A light snow has begun to fall, each flake sending fresh shivers along John's body.

He is a bit surprised when Sherlock takes off his beloved scarf and wraps it around John's own neck.

"You were shaking," Sherlock explains unnecessarily, his hands lingering on John's neck.

"Th-Thank you," John murmurs, looking up at Sherlock's rosy red face. His eyelashes have collected a few of the white flakes, and his dark hair is flecked with them. His obvious beauty almost adds more weight to the box in John's pocket.

Sherlock bends his head down and places a light kiss on John's forehead, and murmurs, "Happy anniversary, love."

John blinks, looking at him with a confused look. Sherlock smiles slightly.

"You didn't honestly think I'd forgotten, did you?" he asks teasingly.

"No, I just thought you didn't care, which was worlds worse," John replies.

"Of course I care, John. It's you." Sherlock's smile and brightly lit eyes are what make John back off a few centimeters.

"Turn around," he insists, and Sherlock blinks in comfortable surprise. "Turn around, back facing me."

Sherlock doesn't question it, just does as John says and turns, his back to John. Somehow this almost makes what John is planning to do ten times more intimidating.

"We've been together two years and you still can't stand to look at me when it's snowing," Sherlock tells the air in front of him, and though John can't see him, he's sure his partner is smirking.

"It's not – okay, it's partly the snow," John admits, his hand closing around the box in his pocket. "A larger part is because it's…._you."_

"Very educated choice of words, John," Sherlock says, halfway sarcastic and halfway playful.

"It is _you_ though. It is. It's just _you, _and it always will be just _you."_

"You _and_ I, John."

A short, breezy silence follows Sherlock's well-placed words. In this short time frame, John slides the box out of his pocket, flipping open the lid and staring at the golden band resting in its white bedding. _I cannot do this. There's no way I can do this._

"Sherlock," John speaks without his mind's consent, and at the same time Sherlock also speaks, "_John."_

Another short silence. The snow is starting to fall at a faster, heavier pace, coating the ground beneath them white.

"You first," Sherlock says.

"Why not you?" John retaliates.

"What I have to say is less important than what you do."

John closes the ring box, staring at the ground. "It's been two years. Technically eight, since I met you. You're….you're so important to me, Sherlock."

"As are you," Sherlock agrees.

"You're my best friend."

"My only true friend."

"You're the only one who doesn't treat me different, like I'm a fragile soldier who needs to be wrapped in bubble wrap so he doesn't break."

"You're the only one who hasn't thought I was a freak, who hasn't fled from me, who's accepted me and actually thought it was brilliant."

And, a fraction of a second after, both John and Sherlock almost automatically say, "_And I love you."_

"Turn around, Sherlock," John says softly, turning the ring box in his hand.

Sherlock doesn't need to be told twice; in the next second, the two of them are facing each other, barely an inch apart, and holding out their hands. And once again, they speak at the exact same moment, both having the same idea coming into the day when they woke for it:

"_Will you marry me?"_

John looks down at the ring in Sherlock's hand – a bright silver band – slightly flabbergasted. Sherlock's eyes are bright with amusement, smiling.

"You first," John says, his voice shaking.

"I've always said I was married to my work, haven't I?" Sherlock explains. "And you are the greatest part of my work."

John can't help the huge smile on his face. "I just know you're a brilliant, amazing, talented, fantastic human I can't bear the thought of losing."

"You won't have to." Sherlock takes John's left hand and slides the silver ring on his finger. "You won't ever have to."

"So is that a 'yes' then?" John asks, also slipping the gold ring onto Sherlock's own finger.

"What do you think?" Sherlock counters, pressing his lips to John's.

And even though it's the coldest day in London, John feels as though he's on fire.

* * *

_**On my birthday you sang….with no clothes. This time I'm not leaving without you**_

The singing of Sherlock's violin wakes John on the morning of his birthday – not a particular occasion he's apt to care about. The soft notes paralyze him, his limbs stuck to the bed, unable to move.

John's always appreciated Sherlock's violin pieces, even if they do often play at inappropriate times. Each note is a voice, singing soprano in the always quiet flat.

The motivation to get out of bed comes from John itching to go downstairs and actually watch. Listening is one thing, but watching long fingers and gently closed eyes is a whole different spectrum.

John throws on his robe and slowly makes his way down the stairs, pausing only when his bare foot rests on Sherlock's soft scarf. Come to think of it, various pieces of Sherlock's clothes are strewn on the stairs, carelessly in yet somehow artistically. Socks, suit jackets, coats….John pauses for an extra moment with his foot on Sherlock's button-up purple shirt (by far his favorite thing for him to wear).

"What in the hell…." It seems to John every article of clothing Sherlock owns is on the stairs, which only leads him to wonder what exactly he _is _wearing.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs, cautiously moving towards the sound of Sherlock's violin.

"Sherlock, what are your clothes –" John starts, but instantly his voice fails as he steps into the living area, blinking rapidly as though unsure of what he's seeing.

Sherlock sits in his usual spot, moving his bow across his violin, producing the eerily beautiful sounds. As an added effect, he's not wearing a thing – except his thin robe, and even that is hanging so loosely on him it's hardly fair.

The violin. The clothes. The man. It's enough to make John's mind go completely blank, staring at Sherlock as though seeing him for the first time.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock looks up at John, smiling.

"Why aren't you….the clothes on the stairs…." John shakes his head, trying to restart his thought process, but failing miserably.

"You have just as much of a robe fetish as I do." Sherlock lowers his violin, a playful and triumphant glean to his eyes.

"Why….all of this?"

"Happy birthday, love."

John blinks, his deflated brain slowly comprehending what Sherlock has done. First, he bothered to remember John's birthday, and had wanted to do something about it. Evidently Sherlock's brilliant mind decided the best present John could want is…._him._ Sherlock. So the violin, the robe, the clothing on the stairs…. It is Sherlock. _Sherlock is giving himself to John for his birthday._

The whole sentiment is odd, yet brilliant. It is so like Sherlock, but so unlike him as well.

And then there is the fact that Sherlock had called John _'love.'_ Which he had never done before until this day. John isn't sure whether he is amazed or frightened by all this sudden affection. That Sherlock initiated.

"Sherlock, I can't believe you," John says softly.

Sherlock's bright eyes darken slightly, his forehead creasing. "Oh….is this….John, if this isn't….I just thought –"

"Sherlock." John smiles at him, secretly loving Sherlock's uncertainty, an uncertainty he never shows unless John is concerned. Because Sherlock can't be wrong when it comes to John.

And John loves him for every bit of that.

"John, really, if this isn't somehow –"

But John has already interrupted him again, stepping forward and seizing his arms to pull him into his arms. It's Sherlock's turn to look surprised.

"Sherlock, you idiot. How could I want anything different?" John tells him, hands gripping at Sherlock's robe, itching for it to be off. "You gave me _you. _How is that in any way a disappointment?"

Sherlock's surprise slowly turns into utter joy, his smile returning to his lips and his eyes alight again.

"Well, I had a Plan B….so if you're hungry, I could make breakfast….or attempt to," Sherlock adds, noticing John's silent snort.

"I'll want that when I want the whole building burned down," John promises.

"I could get Mrs. Hudson to help…. Are you hungry?"

John's hands slide inside of Sherlock's robe, fingers tracing his chest and back. "Oh, God yes."

Robes off. Lips together. A fusion of "you and I" that instantly becomes a "we."

* * *

_**We got a whole lot of money but we still pay rent 'cause you can't buy a house in heaven.**_

"I'm sorry, Sherlock….I can't make rent this month…again." John narrows his eyes, his face burning with humiliation. He's had Sherlock bail him out too many times since he's moved in.

"It's no issue," Sherlock says smoothly, disinterestedly, from the couch, toying with the strings on his violin.

"Sherlock, this is what, the fifth time?"

"John, I've told you it's no issue." Sherlock is still too transfixed by his violin to truly care about John's guilty, desperate voice. "You haven't got the money. So I'll pay your way."

"That's not the point, is it? I live with you, and I can't even give you one of the essentials you need to live here…."

Sherlock finally glances up, fixing John with a curious stare. "That's not quite true."

"'Not quite true?' Sherlock, without this….where would we be? Where would you be….if….if you didn't-"

"Didn't what?" Sherlock interrupts sharply, raising a disapproving eyebrow.

John nervously tugs at a loose string on his jumper. "Didn't….didn't have to –"

"Share with you? Be here with you? Pay your half of the rent?" Sherlock completes the thought listlessly, and John yanks harder at the loose string. "Do you even need to ask, John?"

John knows he doesn't, and feels embarrassed and uncomfortable. About not being able to pay the rent, about _wondering. _How could he _wonder._ It was so much better not to _wonder._

Sherlock allows the momentary silence to tread on for a short few seconds before placing his violin down on the couch and slowly walking over to John. He looks down on the shorter man, his slender hand placing itself on John's neck. An involuntary shiver passes through John's whole body at his cool touch.

"If I didn't share this flat with you, I wouldn't be sharing it with anyone. If you weren't here with me, I would not be here at all," Sherlock says quietly. "Do you want to know why? Because if you weren't here, and we did not share this flat, we would obviously be someplace _better._ Together."

John smiles in an almost drunken way. "Someplace better. Maybe a home in the country. Near London, of course, but a land we own. A house. Together."

Sherlock smirks his usual smirk. "'Tis not enough to dream."

"Maybe it doesn't have to be just that…..but I guess until then, we're stuck paying rent, aren't we?"

Sherlock's hands take John's face and pull him up into a slow, lasting kiss, the kind of kiss that lingers on lips long after it's finished. The kind of kiss that promises a future. A future of life. Together.

"Until then," Sherlock whispers against John's lips, sending a fresh dose of adrenaline-induced shivers down the doctor's spine.

* * *

_**Something, something about the chase….Something about just knowin' when it's right….**_

Sherlock's lips turn up in a smile, turning to face his companion, who looks dumbstruck.

"Of course they're coming for us," Sherlock whispers enthusiastically.

"What?" John interjects, eyes wide and dark in the night.

"They'll have known someone is onto their _precious _and _meticulous _string of murders, won't they? Of course they're going to come after us." Sherlock's voice has lost none of its enthusiasm, his sensitive hearing already picking up on footsteps.

"So….we're running again?"

Sherlock's smile widens. "We're running again."

And with that, Sherlock turns and begins to run, John racing after him along the abandoned London streets.

There's always been an awful lot of running involved in working alongside Sherlock Holmes. The thrill of the chase that Sherlock loves so dearly, as well as the thrill of _being _chased.

A warm hand suddenly slips into Sherlock's, and Sherlock, startled, looks down at John's hand threaded with his own.

Sherlock is oddly shaken by John's touch, but doesn't have time to fully ponder it. He can already hear his pursuers, coming dangerously close with every long stride.

Sherlock is already planning an escape plan – a way they can get out of the line of fire, and perhaps catch the criminals at a standstill. He isn't thinking for long before he sees a small crevice between two abandoned London buildings. Large enough for the two of them – based on their small statures – to fit through, but not enough so for the pursuers (Sherlock can tell by their heavy footsteps they're not small).

Sherlock gives no warning to John; he just suddenly rounds and pulls him through the gap, which is much smaller than Sherlock predicted, but still does its job.

"_Text Lestrade_," Sherlock hisses, oblivious to the fact of how close the two of them are, and only focusing on the men outside their uncomfortable hiding place.

John only has to take in Sherlock's command for a second before hastily taking out his phone. What follows is almost complete silence, minus the idiots on the other side of the crevice.

Neither John nor Sherlock remembers their hands are still connected until well after blue and red police lights illuminate the darkness, and they are free to come out of their hiding place. Lestrade is the first to notice their connected hands, while Sherlock and John are too busy with the fact that the criminals are being arrested.

"Well done, once again, the pair of you," Lestrade tells them amusedly. "Finally decided now's the right time?"

Sherlock shoots him a look, but John suddenly looks embarrassed. Sherlock is suddenly, disappointingly, aware that John's hand is no longer in his own.

"We're not….it was just the heat of the moment, nothing more," John tries to explain.

But Sherlock knows that's not what it was. And suddenly he wishes it were more than what it was.

_Finally decided now's the right time?_

Sherlock's hand is connected with John's hand again, and just as John is looking up with a confused look at him, Sherlock pulls him to his chest and kisses him with everything he has, trying to convey everything to John in one moment.

Oh, how he's _dreamed _of this moment. Dreamed of it but always so unsure of _when._

John's eyes widen in shock, but within seconds he's closed them, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist, leaning closer in. Everything about this is perfect.

"Oi, I didn't actually expect you two to do this _now_!" Lestrade's voice interrupts Sherlock's perfect fantasy, and he breaks the kiss irritably, looking over his shoulder at him.

"You brought it up," Sherlock reminds him, and suddenly smirks. "And don't pretend you aren't enjoying it; I know what you and Mycroft do."

Sherlock only savors the astounded look on Lestrade's face for a second before turning back to John, who is rolling his eyes.

"He's not going to appreciate you for that one, mate," John tells him, and Sherlock smiles.

"I know. Don't care," Sherlock says quietly before kissing John again.

* * *

_**You and I.**_

"_Next time, you're coming with me."_

"_I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and I need you."_

"_We're never apart as long as we're together, you and I…."_

"_It's just you, and it always will be just you." "You and I, John." _

"_You gave me you. How is that in any way a disappointment?"_

"_Because if you weren't here, and we did not share this flat, we would obviously be someplace better. Together." _

_The phrases are used various times over their lives._

_Their wedding vows include all of them._

_On their twentieth anniversary, they have their rings engraved with "You and I."_

_On their fiftieth, Sherlock composes the song on his violin. John adds words._

_When Sherlock dies first, John makes sure the words to the song are on his gravestone._

_When John joins him, they are engraved on his._


End file.
